So Said Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
by lye tea
Summary: Soujirou and Akira accidentally witness an absurd affair. Soujirou-centric, Akira-centric, Rui x Tsukushi
1. Chapter 1

**Warning and A/N: **Experimental writing in the absurdist style. Some parts are intentionally confusing and ostensibly nonsensical. This is a combination of the Korean Boys Before Flowers and Japanese Hana Yori Dango series. But it really doesn't matter if you haven't seen either as long as you know the characters. It's set in the future, anyway.

* * *

Rosencrantz: As indifferent as children of the earth.

—_Hamlet _

Guildenstern: Let us keep things in proportion. Assume, if you ... like, that they're going to kill him...we are little men, we don't know the ins and outs of the matter, there are wheels within wheel, etcetera – it would be presumptuous of us to interfere with the designs of fate or even of kings.

—_Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_

**Act I. _piazza in pieces by pisa_**

SCENE 1

Am we, was, we were—are. Long mile down, sick in the earth, in the time of asters and adders, two soldiers laid down to sleep. Upon their surreal, vertiginous, basic-dye-stained graves, the French placed twin wreaths spun from dainty, violet flowers. They're deranged, deskinned, sorta sore (leagues overcast) and couldn't quite say.

Rose, there.

What, what? —what indeed— Could you…guild in gilded glitter?

"Akira, is that, do you see?" Soujirou pointed to a shady car parked under whistling shades. Green summer and a white designer suit. Someone stepped out the car (latest Lamborghini from Italy, he was envious) and opened the door for a girl. Heels, hell-on-earth, the sound of an awkward, trip-trippy walk. Whoever she was, she wasn't full of grace.

Akira turned around and looked west. He squinted his eyes. Damn setting sun, shit, they're sitting ducks exposed out here. He his head in equal confusion. "What? Is that Rui and Makino?"

"Tsukushi," Soujirou corrected, "She's married now, right?"

"Right. Tsukushi and Rui. I wonder why they're here."

Soujirou rubbed his chin, heavyset in murky contemplation, and shrugged his shoulders in the end. "Who cares? It's their business."

They exited center stage, directing left.

. . .

"Are you sure it's okay to meet here?"

Rui smiled and answered pleasantly, "Of course. I booked this place for the entire afternoon."

"You're starting to act like him."

His smile widened into a small laugh. He pulled out a chair and indicated for her to sit. And now, so began the apathy chat. "You okay?

"Yeah, why?" (that's a lie).

"Nothing." He pretended to scan the menu and said nothing more. He could wait; he'd been waiting all these years. "Try the tiramisu," (thank you).

SCENE 2

One day came along, high noon and sweltering like a lightning-tree in groom, and Akira realized his mother's birthday was coming up fast. He thought of what to get her, something nice, something unique and recherché, and most of all, something extraordinarily expensive. So, he decided to visit Italy and buy her a whole damn Roman temple if that's what she wanted (it's not). Fifty-five was a doubly large, doubly mutinous number to face, and she'd been denying the end for years.

With sun brush-burning overhead and no keys in pocket (no money, jingling Euros), he strolled down _la strada_, _libera_. Signs, streets, shapes and shadows. The cities of Italy were unparalleled. Living, simmering testimonies of enduring contradictions, he could get used to this. He passed by a Gypsy fortune-telling swindling and a lawyer in Prada. Briefly paused by the lawyer, she was hot. Unruly black hair and jaded green eyes, Italians, he made a note of that.

He strolled along, carefree in chicken-breast, minty boned, and humming a dreadful tune of guillotine survivors. Abruptly, he stopped in front of the Galleria (neither here nor there, nor Rome nor Pisa, very odd, that lying cheat). Incidentally, coincidentally, on a spoor of fate, he went inside. Stealthy like a hunter, Akira admitted his curiosity.

It was the hotel magnificent in virginal resurrection, bright, brilliant, with walls out of illuminated vellum (Italy was famous for its religious sacrifices). He scanned around the vicinity. He heard a symphony playing from Sinfonia. Phonetic, wait, mispronounce, in sin-city _Italiane_ (no extra charges for translation and currency exchange).

Alone in the foyer among the throngs of mass-moving people, patrons, loiters, and the like, Akira thought of changing hotels. He liked the sizzling snazz, the pizzazz, the finesse intrinsic of all scions with extraordinary largess. He made up his mind, he'll switch rooms that night.

Across from him, a woman slipped on the newly polished marble. She looked strangely familiar, stranger the strange. Oh, beautiful Maria infinite in grace—the lord with thee. He watched from afar. She regained her poise and walked away, leaving behind a single flower that fell from her bouquet.

Eccentric girl. Akira tilted back his head for a rest.

. . .

On Friday, third day of the month, she notified the butlers, the maids, the secretaries, and the in-laws that she would be leaving for Europe for the week. The butlers bowed stiffly, the maids gossiped immediately, the secretaries (what they didn't know) made the arrangements, and the in-laws merely shrugged and reminded her of an important, impromptu meeting the following Tuesday. She assured them she would be back by then.

On Saturday, fourth day running away, she checked into the Galleria and pulled out a letter. Standing in the hall, she perused the contents and dashed toward the elevator. At precisely, three-thirty in the afternoon, the elevator doors mechanized into gear (pushed open) and out stepped a man. They greeted each other (highly awkward from bystander view, relayed by another guest several days later). And after a Hogarthian tête-à-tête, she followed him into a very private, very exclusive, very suspicious suite.

On Sunday, the day of judgment and acedia in inertia motion, Tsukushi decided to cut things direct and package them away for the mummification keep. But for now, she will enjoy the moment and drink upscale coffee stirred with genuine crystal.

"You've been rather quiet lately."

"You're always quiet," she grumbled back.

Rui stirred some cream into the tepid beverage. The gentle clink of silver battling porcelain jolted the air. Inaction, he reprimanded himself, and unthought were the perpetual, instinctive dangers to be kept at bay. "I saw Akira yesterday."

"What's he doing here?"

"Maybe he's taking a vacation like we are."

"I'm thinking of having an affair," and there blurted out the notorious interposition (indubitably posing a threat to everyone).

"Interesting, but not surprising."

"I want a divorce."

"I do too."

"Eh? Really?"

"No, not really."

She sighed in relief. It was only a joke.

In his head, Rui played Paganini's _Caprice No. 23_ on rewind, hit repeat. And in there, he pictured a war between Goya's _Los Caprichos No. 10_ and _No. 43_.

He dreamt of insomnia's reasonable disenchantment. It's not prettiness engraved.

SCENE 3

Marriage was a risk, an universal truth. Sometimes, the net wins covered the net losses, but sometimes (like in her case) the losses were too great, too encompassing, too unforgiving.

In the heat of July and dissected blights, Tsukushi called up a trusted, anonymous, entirely too miraculous lawyer from her hotel room in Milan. The lawyer paused in the middle of his Nabokov, page 127, and answered the phone. Their conversation went something like annotated this:

"What the devil are you doing there?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said: did you get those lovely pears?"

"Yes, but—"

"Who's the boy?"

"New assistant."

"Madam, you lie—he's not."

"Sorry, what?"

"Never mind: it's damn hot."

"We'll talk later."

"Don't forget the toy."

Someone knocked on the door

. . . .

Akira wasn't a suspicious person by nature, but either he was hallucinating or something extremely weird was going on. He was due to leave Italy, flee to Paris and meet up with Soujirou for his newest gallery opening, when—acting on a hunch—he knocked on Room 333. Paced around, step three in midair, and was about to leave, and then, the door opened just a crack.

He smelled lilies (tasted the lies hung up to dry) and knew he was right. Slowly, Akira crossed the threshold with a cheery expression tattooed on permanently.

"Who's there?"

"Yo, Tsukushi."

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?" he walked in anyway.

"Why are you here? Did you know _I_ was here?"

"Nope. Where's Rui?"

"He's—no, wait," she swiftly pulled him inside, darting to see if anyone else were there, "You don't care that we're here?"

"Is there a reason I should?"

"No."

"So, that's settled. Say, do you have anything to drink? It's dry as hell out there."

He meticulously observed her while she prepared drinks. There was definitely something off. With her hair half-down, tumbled and messy, she looked like a flustered housewife who just committed some bad, bad crime. Akira took the tea she offered and made a silent toast. There was a mystery happening here, and he was intrigued.

"Why don't we go for a ride later?"

Tsukushi nodded carefully, weighted the consequences. He got her cornered at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act II. **_**parfait paris parvenu**_

SCENE 1

M. Degas once said two timeless things. The first being: 'Art' is the same word as 'artifice', that is to say, something deceitful. It must succeed in giving the impression of nature by false means. And the second, the one he came to really be hated for: Women can never forgive me; they hate me, they feel that I am disarming them. I show them without their coquetry.

In the pursuit of refinement and the theoretical study of fine art, these were two aphorisms Soujirou memorized deathly. M. Degas was a clever man who did clever things with bristles and whiskers and pots of paint, but M. Degas failed in his penultimate quest. He attested that the point of art is to fabricate.

In response, said Soujirou, "Art, especially the avant-garde, must successfully take this one step further. It must recreate." Necessary to obliterate, shortly speaking.

In the world of old masters and new ingénues, it's not a contest between reality and unreality. When the meat's been sliced and dried, when the hides have been stretched over wooden frames, the artist makes the final distinction—the instinctive choice—between stopping there and exposing the ruse or venturing on. And after all, explanations were no fun. It's more entertaining to keep the stupid audience (the bourgeois, the feeble-ankled, tight-laced women) guessing. They gobbled it up (licked him over) like panting dogs over dessert water.

"True art," Professor Emeritus droned, "makes it impossible to separate truth from falsehood. It's something to be feared, not admired."

Thus, concluded tonight's seminar, ladies and gentlemen. Please repair to the salon for refreshments now.

Soujirou shifted sly, twisty and unruly, off the thespian dais. Around him, danced the praises, raises (high-end the stakes, he could take, honestly). Imminently immanent, how's that for flustered floundering? Ironically, the revelation of tonight's _pièce de résistance_ was titled _Missing Husband_. A moment of solemnity for the implicit poetic justice, please. He could wait. He had eternity to spare.

Smiling into his effervescent champagne flute, Soujirou waited for the cosmic laughter to rise. They'll get it (those women), they always did in the end. He spotted Tsukushi by the sidelines, mourning black. She waved him over hesitantly. He nodded and stepped down (dethroning kings takes only a single move). The game began.

"Where's Tsukasa?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Where's Rui?"

"I don't know."

"Missing?"

"Maybe."

"It's not enough to sustain yourself, you should know."

"What isn't?"

She gave the authentic air of surprise. He knew better than that. Leaning in, he stared into her with wry amusement and tucked back a tendril of loose hair. Tsukushi was a rabbit ensnared between long metallic bones. Crunch-crunch, crush and crush. Off with the bunny's head and into the stew.

He smiled sweetly and whispered, "Don't be coy. You know what I mean. Affection, love, romance, whatever you call it. It's not enough, not by far. You should make a choice soon. Seems like we're having déjà vu again, aren't we? If you'll excuse me, I see my agent there."

For the first time since they challenged the demarking demarcations of polite society, he left her dangling for the vultures.

. . .

"Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties—Jules Renard. He'll be fine, Tsukushi. If he really is as he says he is, he'll be fine. Comprendre, c'est pardoner."

"Akira, I only know one language, and it's not French."

"Oh, is that so? Staying for the party, then?"

"For a bit."

"You should. Soujirou would be devastated. Despite his cool demeanor, he prides himself extensively on his art. Proud to a fault, some would say. So, you should stay and satisfy his passions. Well, see you. Ah, one more thing, it's never a good idea to regret the same decision twice."

In the warring, whirring, and agonizing instant before a battle, repetition was crucial. It's a nice, effective, and deceptively straightforward way of solidifying things. Akira dipped a slight nod to Soujirou—simultaneously winking charmingly for her sake.

They weren't princes; they were kings. They had it figured it out, how to edge consolidation into a type of darkly scripted consolation. Easily accomplished. The simply take it by both ends and dirt-shirk it along the blade, hack (hackneyed, pincer-pinny) until it's smooth.

It's so ingenious even he didn't understand what the hell it meant.

SCENE 2

Soujirou was one gifted bastard. For the past few days, he'd been immersed in the throes and mysticisms of presiding gallery director, hosted several different exhibitions, and conducted two seminars on the philosophy of art. And there was more to come. If they weren't best friends, Akira could honestly confess he'd be seething.

"Paris is the lord of vice, the emperor of inconsistencies."

"How'd the seminar go?"

"Excellent. Akira, don't you find it bizarre that only Tsukushi is here?"

Akira pondered on this for a moment. They were sitting in a café, on the Champs-Élysées, two mannequin-Manet demimondaines on each side, with the world juggled 'round and drowned. So lame (the grainy grain), just plain boring. Layers and lines, they rehearsed specifically for this.

"Onions," Soujirou speared the silence, "I forgot to request for onions."

"Bizarre. Not particularly. She's our friend too, in case you forgot."

"How could I forget such a cute girl? Shizuka is late."

"She's married now with two children, so give her some slack."

"Everyone's married but us. Well, almost everyone. You know I don't like being left out, Soujirou. Look, here comes Shizuka. Maybe I'll ask her to marry me."

"I thought you only liked excessively old women."

"Nope, me, myself, version, persona, prosopopoeia changed. Apparently, the old me was too particular. You know how stingy they are, those genetic bureaucracy types."

"That's ridiculous, you're ridiculous, we're all ridiculous."

"Who said that?"

"I don't know, do you?"

Shizuka sighed in the grip of time and ordered coffee for all three. She sat down between them and parted the discordant sea. "Boys, let's not fight. Why did you call me here? You said it was an emergency."

"I did?"

"Did I?"

She frowned and scowled venomously at them. It was no time for fun and games. She cleared her throat, and the two children immediately sobered up. (Shizuka laughed to herself. She still hasn't lost her touch.)

"Tsukushi is doing something very, very bad. By the way, you look gorgeous today," Soujirou complimented in a flash.

"Naughty, naughty, she's tricky and doughty," Akira supplemented with a bang.

And Shizuka merely looked more mystified and less convinced. "What are you talking about?"

"You know." Smile, slink, sleek, and slide (all snide points aside).

It dawned on her what Babylonian gibberish they were rambling. Little boys really don't ever grow up. "Is that it? You're falling behind on the news, Soujirou, Akira. I knew everything from the start. Tsukushi told me herself. My question, however, is why are you two so suddenly interested? After all, it's an issue solely between them."

"Whose side do you pick?" said Soujirou or Akira.

Madame considered this. "Neither." Madame didn't disappoint.

. . .

Le Deauville was located in the smattering and pattering of luxury sprees. Haussmann had predicted the future in consummate alacrity. Consumption, waste, and edacious, tenacious tastes marked the foundations of his theory of avarice. People flocked to Paris to dine, drink the wine, and buy, by and by. Pray, don't ask why.

It's a city centered on an agglomerate of globalized pretty pettiness. A gem molded in perfect chaos, Paris was a tiny city taking colossal strides. Here, the verge, the diverging breach of ersatz validity, beauty lied in the power of invisibility. Here, no one cared. Too much became no such (I have paled you out of existence and you I).

Here, they remained sheltered in lightened occlusion (Rui wondered if it's the same as cheating).

"I am."

"You're what?"

"Cheating. It's awful, isn't it?"

He lied and said it was. Paris being the only city extant to witness Pandora's birth.

SCENE 3

On his last night in Paris, cloistered by beautiful Parisiennes, Soujirou put on a lavish display, a marvelous affair, a spectacular spectacle. As rumors went, it was highlighted as the party of the decade. Invitations were sent to anyone who was anyone, save for two people who really weren't supposed to know. Except they always did, except they feigned ignorance, except everyone knew anyway, except supposing they did—and they did too—it still wasn't important because he said so. Or maybe they said so, or maybe no one said so.

Circular logic was an exhaustive exercise. They were caught in the infinite loop

As the scintillating host, the trenchant truce-holder, Soujirou invoked his supreme, esteemed ability to tell a passing joke. He muttered into a woman's ear (she couldn't quite hear) and the joke spread à la bees to honey, voracious, zesty pests.

"What's the joke?"

"It's fantastic."

"But what is it?"

"Nothing to it, you just have to imagine between the lines for complete appreciation."

Snip, snip along the surgical seams of cosmic comedy; notes to exclude: avoid annoying alliteration, chiasmic palindromes, fables of babel, parenthetical fanfaronade—(I've lost track).

"What's the report, Soujirou?"

"Deport what?"

"No, I said 'report.' What's the news?"

"I've lost my muse. She's forsaken me for another man. Who's who? I'm already confused."

"Did you place your bet?"

"Want a cigarette?"

"She'll never leave him. I've staked a million on that."

"Don't be assured, be absurd. I'm the clairvoyant here. I've got the artistic touch."

"The flamboyant flush. How many fights have they had?"

"Including the current one? Somewhere in the thousandth place. She'll give him the papers tonight, and we'll all toast to it in the morning. Incidentally, out of curiosity, scientific empiricism, not because we're bored, should we take sides?"

—a beast, no more; belies his Belial counterparts

"Let us wait and see who will win, and then, we side with the winner obviously. This way, we are guaranteed."

"What'll we gain—either way?"

"Nothing. That's the genius, don't you see?"

. . .

Stifled in her stuffy, summer-bred room, the windows shut, Tsukushi went over the papers again, which she had her lawyer fax over via express early that morning. Everything was organized. She just needed him to sign. On the dotted line, there was a smudge of ink. Tsukushi blotted it out and turned it into a heart (he's gonna be furious when he sees that).

Rui was asleep on the other side of the suite and knew nothing of this. She glanced over each enumerated, individual points, fastidiously checking for mismarked marital demerits. It felt odd, to be finally filing for divorce.

She signed her name and sealed the envelope. It was addressed and stamped for Japan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Act III. **_**vienna's singing for van gogh soon**_

SCENE 1

In tremendous haste and tremulous faced, they packed their bags and detoured southeast for Vienna. The birthplace of music, the classical capitol of modern marvel, Vienna was an appropriate choice for the beginning and the end. Hostess for the original waltz and perpetually fighting a childish Mozartean dichotomy, it's a city of trained elites and train wrecks.

Planted at the junction between east and west (Europe), Vienna testified to more trauma than it wanted to admit. It's a republic in three songs: one fundamental stave, two quivering quavers, and a terrible triple treble clef.

"No, no," said Soujirou, "You've got it backwards. Besides, that didn't make any logical sense. And who allowed you soliloquies?"

Akira shrugged. "The idiot behind the theatrics. Also, it's not a soliloquy; it's a monologue that's unfortunately turned dialogue."

"What's that got to do with anything? We're not in a Shakespearian tragedy. Thank god, otherwise, we'd be dead—since, you know, we are so-and-so."

"Said who?"

"Who said?"

"I'm experiencing a quirk in time. Why're we here, anyway?"

Soujirou pondered this solemnly. "To attend a concert, I think."

"Ah, right. Is Rui performing?"

"He's not that good. It's a colleague of his. They both studied under Amadeus Beethoven when they were younger."

"Amadeus Beethoven. Is that supposed to be an oxymoron?"

"I'm not sure. In any event, we are late. Wait, hurry and hide behind that decorative tree—quickly. I hear someone coming."

Akira sputtered indignantly. He'll do no such thing; he's wearing haute-couture. But Soujirou dragged him behind the fir, and they hushed to eavesdrop clearly. If dishonourable things must be done, then do them with the intention of attaining at least an honourable mention.

. . .

"We'll talk about this later."

"No, we'll talk about it _now_."

"Let go of me."

"Not until you answer me."

"I said later."

Rustle and hustle, the speakers stormed off stage.

Soujirou emerged, slightly ruffled, but immensely pleased. He removed a silk leaf from his hair and checked to see if his attire was mussed. Every strand in place again, he was ready.

Akira fared barely better and suffered only the loss of an earring. He smoothed his tuxedo shirt and sighed in relief. Listening to anonymous argument while concealed behind verdant foliage was a chore he didn't want to repeat.

"I need to wash my hands and rinse out the cut."

"You cut yourself on a plastic twig?" Akira joked.

"No, from before, that piece of crystal back in France. There, better now, I've stopped the bleeding. Did you hear that just now?

"What do you think they were talking about?"

"Why do you answer my question with another question? What else could it be? She's obviously having an affair, and he doesn't like it. It's about time he confronted her. I was starting to grow bored with anticipation."

"Should we interject?"

"Why bother? We're humans. We are not gods. We have no guarantee that we understand all the complexities and convolutions involved. If we do anything, it might only exacerbate the situation. It's best we watch and silently observe. I think the denouement is approaching, just wait."

"You don't feel a little guilty?

"Maybe a bit, but I am resolute. Akira, there's no use in interfering. Who are we to mess with fate? Let's stand aside and see at which point the triangle breaks. It's allegedly the sturdiest geometric shape."

SCENE 2

The famous Viennese Sachertorte was a crumpling delicacy of lies, but Akira had a passion for chocolate that refused to die. And so, he ate it with vast aplomb and surging bravery. It rolled around dry and pernickety (caught and stuck in the snaggletooth). Not overly sweet, not overly rich, it's a dessert best served with brandy and cream.

In genuine masochistic taste, Akira took one bite and restricted himself to savouring the flavour. He prided himself on being a stoic epicure. Sybaritic pleasures were for the feeble of soul (Soujirou acted as intimate confirmation). Akira firmly denied it as his secret infirmity but stole a second and a third until so long, gone was the entire slice.

"Give me yours if you're not eating it."

Soujirou pushed away his china plate. "I want tea." He pouted pathetically.

"Then order some."

"I want Japanese tea, fresh from Kyoto, encased oxidized wonder, and pink-glazed _manju_. I'm desperate, can't you tell?"

"So order some."

"But then I won't have a right to complain, and complaining is enormously fun."

"Then why are we discussing this? It's ridiculous."

"It's another repartee to add to our repertoire, for that moment when we become internationally recognized and adored. We can say that we surpassed Tsukasa and Rui in something. We're the writers, we're the actors, and we'll have the final word in the drama."

Akira swallowed the last of the cake and swished down a gulp of cognac. Soujirou looked delirious (so did he). Onward march for jaded glory. "As long as I'm cast as the main narrator."

"Naturally." Soujirou raised his glass for a concurring toast.

Armed with the myth of Sisyphus as the new world's bible, they play catch-the-Alice in cat's cradle.

. . .

Eating Sachertorte and drinking coffee, Tsukushi stared at her husband on a fixation high. His curly hair was tousled from the wind (twenty mph, seventeen degrees Celsius, with a ninety-nine-point-nine percent probability of rain). It was her turn to speak.

"I—" She paused to inhale a large quantity of motivation.

Wet dirt smelled like heaven when the first drops of rain penetrated its surface. Dirt was perfect in that state, loamy and soft to touch but not too weak that it became mud. Mud appeared later like a nightmare.

Amassing outstanding courage and resolution, she tried again, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to work out like this."

Tsukasa carefully weighted her words. It's the second time she said that, and he didn't believe her anymore than last. "No, you're not."

"Maybe not," she confessed.

"So what do we do now?"

"I don't know."

After one year and one month exact, it was the shortest marriage recorded in family history (she was certain). It wasn't a failed one (Tsukushi kept that as a bracing reminder). There were no such pompous purities as failed marriages—bombastic, useless term. Marriages were brief, enduring, glad, or sad.

But they never failed to leave an impression. That was consistently true.

SCENE 3

Landing an emergency plane was like further lancing an already debilitating pain. The basic strategy demanded for cool-headed confidence and a foolproof opening. Zeroing the aircraft through turbulent clouds and onto the charcoal, paved strip always sent hearts racing fast and brains malfunctioning bad. As for lacerations and unguents, sprinkle in lead and the wound will fester. Both scenarios were limited to a single chance for the solitary entrance gate.

Their happy, meerkat-wearing, musketeer quartet turned quintet—perhaps sextet including Yuki—was breaking up. It's an embarrassment considering how the events unfolded, leading up to the culmination, conflagration up the Sistine ceiling.

Gossip in today's day and age travelled via the express lane, and news of the impending Domyouji Divorce (all capitals and majestic majuscules) spread in true globalization fashion. Invented in Milan immigrated to Paris exiled to Vienna and encompassed the world. All of which occurred within the span of a week.

Akira turned off the television and sighed. He was sorely disenchanted with the results (excellent that they didn't plan to bet).

"What now?"

"I'm meditating."

"Zen Buddhism?"

Annoyed, Soujirou opened one eye. "Yin-yang, feng-shui philosophy by Master Chang. He's the focus of every current late-night infomercial. An artificial, phenomenal noumena."

"Is he on the cover of cereal boxes?"

"Not yet, but I predict he'll do a Pepsi or Coca-Cola advertisement soon."

"What kind of faith does he preach?"

"Only the best kind, of course. He practises what's called Judeo-Hindu-Jesus-Bodhisattva-ism. The –ism legitimizes it as a natural religion."

"Well, at least it sounds more convincing and grounded than Scientology."

Soujirou snorted. "What isn't? I guess we'll be leaving for home in the morning."

"Shame, I met two gorgeous girls today—twins, too."

"It can't be helped. Tsukasa and Tsukushi announced their divorce and are heading back to officialise the papers. Rui is staying here until the tempest passes. He's probably hoping for a romantic reunion with Tsukushi when she returns. As for us, we are done here. We've accomplished what we set out to do."

"What _did_ we set out to do?" Akira looked up expectantly.

"Absolutely nothing."

They grinned like identical Cheshire cats.

. . .

_sweet goodnight to The Prince_

Chorus: Physically fatigued and shedding off the remnants of existential ennui, Soujirou and Akira reflected over the past seven days. They sit back against back in a busy airport, and feverish with fascination, debate their importance and role in the preceding drama.

Akira: We're illusionists of the premier prestige. We escaped without a scratch.

Soujirou: That's because we didn't do anything.

Akira: What's the harm in that?

Soujirou: Retrospectively, nothing if you think about what ensued for the others.

Akira: So did we succeed?

Soujirou: Only if we say so.


End file.
